A Writer's Inspiration

Kerouac's words danced over my skin, jumped into my mouth, and caressed my tongue – I feared that if I swallowed them, they would certainly consume me. I desired to wear his un-staggering genius as my own, wear it like a bohemian scarf stolen from an acquaintance, and keep it close to my skin.

Recent adventures had been fueled by alcohol and a lack of faith in the goodness of men. Heart broken, and mailed to me like a cheap postcard from Graceland, I was cocooning myself in the protective bubble of friends, alcohol and distraction.

'You have the most beautiful green eyes' he said and his gold band of promise was ignored. His look would caress my shoulder from across the room, his toes innocently touching mine were secretly begging me to allow him into my world of words, scars and eating ice-cream, a skill that I had so phallically perfected that it could weaken the knees of the most casual male observer without them ever realizing why – all the while, promises of faithfulness were keeping someone warm at home, yet they were being ignored here. This bothered me slightly until the consequences of our eventual actions were realized by me to be solely his, and another literary moment would be stolen for future reference.

Lying on the bed, skin to skin, the universe couldn't condemn us, after all, it felt so right ' kissing you is just like kissing myself, you are the female version of me' yet we hid our tryst from others, which made it all the more exciting, and only heightened our sense of pleasure in dark, stolen moments.

I felt comfort in his gaze, his desire 'I wonder where you are and what you are doing' and his jealously only made my previous heart ache swim that much further away.

'Are you happy with your life?' I asked, 'only about sixty percent' he replied. 'Why?' 'I don't feel like I can be myself, I'm pretending for others, it's not like that with you', 'but you have to go home', ' I can come and visit', we both knew he wouldn't, he had to much that he wasn't willing to lose.

The night of consummation, naked and wrapped in each other I asked, 'why?'

'Consider me a gift'- I fell asleep and considered, woken a few hours later to reality, and work, I dressed and dragged my tired ass off to the beach, he slept soundly in my lingering impression.

Losing time, drinking to hold onto it, we packed our lives back into bags that now seemed to small for all the memories we would never have, and tried to fool each other that we didn't care. We made love that night, listening to Radiohead, and kissed like we had been doing it all our lives, two fish swimming, searching and gasping for air – we had to return home.

'I will miss you' the note read, but I knew that it was the thought of me, not the reality that would be truly missed, a perfect literary moment, a perfect ending, so neat and tidy, I wouldn't want to ruin it by writing a sequel.